Posthumourous
by WritingRamblingRavenclaw
Summary: You don’t get many letters these days, I’m sure. So you finally get one, and it’s from me, and you maybe think I have something earthshatteringly romantic, truly beautiful, to say.If that’s what you’re thinking, just stop reading.For Fred
1. happy birthday

_For October 8, 2007 and the sweet sixteen that will never come…_

You had better not be expecting anything.

I mean, I know how things are. You don't get many letters these days, I'm sure. So you finally get one, and it's from me, and you maybe think I have something earth-shatteringly romantic, truly beautiful, to say.

If that's what you're thinking, just stop reading.

Because that is _not _what this is, you hear me?

And how dare you hope for that, after everything? After the way you left?

You can forget about it.

I'm only writing this at all because it's March 31st, see. Meaning tomorrow is April 1st, meaning…

Happy Birthday.

I warned you, didn't I?

So don't you _dare _be disappointed, Fred Weasley. You're lucky to get that much after what you did.

How you left. I'm _beyond _romance; so don't even try to get something meaningful out of me. There's nothing meaningful left, nothing meaningful about my existence. You took all the meaningful with you.

_And did I ever mean a thing to you?_

* * *

So. Short. This is part of a series but not a real one, more of a… uh… insert appropriate fan fiction term here… anyway, I'm aiming for three chapters but it might be four, posthumous letters to Fred. They're all from the same person, but…

Who knows who _that _is? I'd REALLY appreciate any thoughts on this. As you might have noticed from the dedication this isn't just something I came up with. It's personal and I'd love it if you'd share an opinion with me. Please.


	2. a little lost

_For John and for Rory, who are always looking a little lost._

They all look a little lost, you know.

Not unless you look really hard, because there are just so _many _of them, and they're so smiling and laughing and trying to be fine that you almost don't notice how hard they're fighting to live without you.

Only, if you look them in the eye, you can tell. They've all got that _look, _that look that says,

_I loved him and he's gone and I need him back because he left and he took most of me with him._

I haven't seen your dad since the funeral, but your mum shows up now and then. Her lost look is clearer than the rest of them. Her eyes are so dark and wet all the time that it's almost hard to look at her for too long. Not that it's easy to look at her anyway.

She's so like you, it scares me sometimes. All of them look like you, so undeniably _Weasley, _and those _eyes-_

Your little sister is getting married to Harry Potter next month, but if you didn't see that coming than that's a little sad.

_She's _a little sad. Most assume that she'd be happiest of them all, the shining princess, the fairy tale illustration next to her handsome prince. She's become the envy of the entire Wizarding world, with her hero and her beauty and her happily ever after, but _something's missing. _

It's not a surprise who misses you the most, who has the gentle right to moan and sulk and never get over it but of course it's George so he'd never take that right. He just walks around pretending to be happy. Pretending to be fine. Pretending that he doesn't miss you at all, pretending that he doesn't notice the looks on our faces when he enters the room, that split second where we almost hope you've suddenly returned, forgetting your permanent _missingness._

You are the missing part of all of us. Sometimes I look at them though, and I feel guilty for missing you so much when it's they who deserve it. They who deserve _you._

Because honestly,

_I'm not really worthy of missing you so much._


	3. leaving

_For Tommy, who never knew._

I've never told anyone how much I resent you for leaving.

Because, really, how could I? I can just imagine your family's righteously cold reactions to such a person. Such a person to hate their son for dying.

That's not all that I mean, though. I hated you for leaving long before that night.

The first time was early December, back in sixth year, that night when you broke me, just a little, for the first time. We'd been friends for years, and I'd always wanted more. Somehow, I'd always thought that you did too.

So there was that stupid ball and you asked my best friend to go instead of me, and I was miserable. Katie, who was my sole confidante on those dark days, didn't seem to see the problem.

I had the _brother, _see, the twin. Just as good looking- _she didn't notice that your hair was a shade darker, that you had that crooked dimple when you smiled your brightest._

More mature, too- _but what did I want with mature?_

George was fine. George was nice. I'd always known that.

What did it matter, to me? I wanted _you._

And so my heart broke.

Or so I'd always believed, being sixteen and blissfully naïve, incomprehensive of the true meaning of pain.

And so life went on. I survived through your quick relationship with my best friend, pretended to be supportively devastated for the both of you at your messy end, and continued to hope.

Eventually it had to pay off.

You were depressed about Umbridge kicking you off the Quidditch Team.

I was around.

So there we stood, not together but not quite apart either. There were a few stolen kisses, the occasional conversation that truly _meant _something, at least to me.

But nothing more. Nothing _real._

And then you left.

Not the world- not where everyone else was concerned. But you left. You were _gone, _and while everyone else was willing to expect- to worship you for it- I was wishing it were all a nightmare.

And I didn't see you again, not until that night.

It was awkward.

You asked why I hadn't visited you in London.

I told you I'd been busy, and you made no effort to hide the disbelief on your face.

I was always a terrible liar.

They say you died laughing.

Everyone else seems to think that it's unbelievably significant, tragically sweet, heartbreaking. I can't imagine that you would die any other way.

You, of all people would die laughing. Older and more whole and experienced. Married and with children, a family as big and warm as your own, at age 147 at the least.

But still laughing.

Not like this.

And since it was like this, Fred, _how could you laugh?_

How could you laugh at leaving us all so utterly laughless?

At leaving me once again?

I've never told anyone how much I resent you for leaving.

I've never told anyone how many times you left, left me confused and disoriented, sometimes heartbroken but always _dazzled. _

You never ceased to amaze me.

I love you.

You meant the world to me. The world I wanted, needed, anyway.

You were everything I ever wanted, and you never knew.

Happy Birthday.

Alicia.


End file.
